


Ghost on the Moor

by sassenachpetals



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21677170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassenachpetals/pseuds/sassenachpetals
Summary: One-shot: Claire & Frank visit the Culloden battlefield (as shown via flashback in "Rent").  However, what if Claire unwittingly encountered a presence--a presence that has been reported to be wandering the moor for hundreds of years? And one she will come to know...
Comments: 13
Kudos: 75





	Ghost on the Moor

“You can see how flat and open and boggy it is.”

Frank’s authoritative voice cut through the—indeed—foggy air of Scotland. Walking across the wide expanse of Culloden Moor had been his idea, as an avid history professor, and only now was Claire beginning to regret complying. The air hung heavy and thick on the expansive field and the recent rain caused her shoes to sink into the mud with each step and slowed her a pace. They were far from where they’d parked the car by now, and the emptiness was almost overwhelming even with very little knowledge of the battle that took place here. Claire wrapped herself in her arms and hurried to catch up to Frank.

“The Highland army was completely exposed, and they then charged into the teeth of musket fire, cannons, mortars…” she heard him continue, while her eyes searched the landscape.

A second honeymoon in Scotland had sounded much more romantic than it was turning out to be. Visiting the site of a battle was not quite what she’d had in mind, but even more than that: in the short time they’d been walking the area, she felt an unease biting through the comfortable layers of her ensemble.

Shaking her head, and pulling her headscarf tighter, she patiently refocused on Frank’s stream of words, as they arrived at a cluster of weathered stone markers.

Frank exhaled through his teeth, a sign of contemplation that she’d grown accustomed to in their marriage. “…it was very, very quick and very bloody. The whole thing took less than an hour.”

Taking in the weight of his words, Claire glanced at each marker individually. The brochure they’d picked up back in Inverness had said these markers were essentially mass graves for the clans. Her eyes traced the faint lines of clan names engraved in stone. Thoughts of men and young boys fighting and losing their lives where she stood made her shudder and her stomach churn.

Memories began to bubble up in her mind: flashes of French hospitals, the metallic smell of blood, and the scratch of hoarse groans. Faces, young and old, battered physically and emotionally. A familiar ache settled into her heart. She’d seen enough war in her lifetime, but she felt obligated to honor the dead here and voice the question hanging in the air. Swallowing, she asked, “How many were killed?” Claire immediately noticed an almost imperceptible chill suddenly whip through the air. Shifting on her feet, she straigtened her back to ward off a bizarre sensation—almost of being watched. It was distracting enough that she almost missed Frank’s answer.

“…region of 2,000 men. But the interesting thing is that in the years following Culloden, the estates of the clan chieftains were plundered, sold,” Frank said, gesturing broadly to the grave markers. “The government banned the wearing of tartan. They banned the carrying of swords, even the Gaelic language. In effect, Culloden marked the end of the clans and the end of the Highlander way of life…”

At that moment, a chill ran down Claire’s spine and Frank’s words dulled into a mere hum in her consciousness. Her eyes felt swollen, almost like a fever-symptom, and they were drawn inexplicably to a smaller marker off the beaten path. Her breath came slowly and, unconsciously, she found herself standing timidly before the stone. ‘Clan MacKenzie,’ it read. Furrowing her brow, she was vaguely aware of Frank making his way further off towards the memorial cairn, but absolutely no part of her could have torn herself from this spot had she wanted to. Her feet were stuck as if attracted by a magnet.

Unaware how long she’d stood there simply gazing at the marker with an ominous energy in the air, she sensed a presence beside her. In the periphery of her vision, she could almost make out the build of a man. She blinked and turned to face the man. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end.

He was tall, larger than her in build, and bald. What he wore struck her as odd for such a chilly day. She saw plainly his thin shirt and tartan kilt, as well as the leather belt and rusting sword at his waist. But her eyes were drawn to two specific details: the round, dried blood stain at his chest and the way his worn clothes hung completely still over his frame, despite the strong breeze. A trail of mould crept menacingly along the material’s edges and she half expected to smell the reek of it.

He stood two feet away, but no matter how hard she focused, Claire was unable to make out his features exactly; blue eyes were looking past her, almost through her, to the stone. A dull pain descended on her bones as she took in the sight of the older man, her breathing shallow and her feet planted where she stood.

Features forlorn, lost, and immeasurably sad—face contorted in grief. His lips were moving beneath his full, greying beard but he was speaking quietly and Claire had difficulty hearing what he was saying. Her body leaned forward in morbid interest. Then her ears picked up the word he was whispering into the wind. A single word, with almost the same reverence as the utterance of a loved one’s name.

“Defeated.”

Suddenly, his piercing blue eyes, previously unfocused and hazy, darted upwards locked with her own whisky ones. A shot of electricity ran through her.

The spell was broken.

A scream lodged in her throat as Claire backed away in horror, scrambling towards where Frank had disappeared. Her feet, finally freeing her of her trance, sputtered wildly, kicking up dirt as she ran. The world around her darkened as her heart-rate spiked, racing as fast as her feet to carry her away from what she’d seen.

“Frank?!” Claire croaked out. When she finally reached him, he was inspecting the memorial, unaware of what had transpired. With her husband’s nearness, the feelings of terror that had gripped her seconds earlier began to dissipate. But her eyes were still wild and her heart refused to calm within her chest.

“Did you say something, darling?” he asked in a clipped tone, concern barely registering in his voice, as his grey eyes scanned the words on the stone structure in front of him.

She searched the spot she’d been in moments before—there was no one. A frenzied scan around the open field proved unfruitful. Claire blinked once. Twice. Had the man really been there? Had she imagined it? Surely, she was just hungry or bored. But would her hungry or bored imagination concoct such a bloodied, distraught image? As she thought back on what she’d seen, she realized the details were no longer clear in her mind, if they’d ever been. Her mind seemed almost reluctant to recall the interaction and she had to agree, goosebumps spreading over her body.

Noticing the tremor in her hands, she hugged herself and rubbed her arms in an attempt to warm up and bring herself back to a reality in which she was not crazy. Frank was looking at her now.

_Buck up, Beauchamp._

“No, darling. I, ehm, was just admiring the memorial,” she finally responded, plastering on a smile to banish her nerves and his suspicions. Something told her Frank was not a strong believer in…whatever that was she’d seen.

By the kindly smile Frank gave her, he’d clearly bought her excuse. At the very least, he seemed ready to continue his history lesson. Taking her arm, he pulled her closer to inspect the words on the large cairn before them.

_The Battle of Culloden was fought on this moor_

_16 th April 1746_

_The graves of the gallant highlanders who fought_

_For Scotland & Prince Charlie_

_Are marked by the names of their clans_

“What most people don’t realize is that Bonnie Prince Charlie actually escaped as soon as the battle began. From Inverness, he made his way to the Isle of Skye, where he…” he began anew, sharp professorial tone slicing through the air once more.

But Claire barely registered the words her husband said. Her mind was sleepy and her limbs slightly jelly-like due to the rush of adrenaline she’d experienced moments before; she had no desire to focus any longer on the events that took place on this moor two centuries before. If she never returned to Culloden, it would not be long enough.

Nevertheless, the day carried on and soon she and Frank were speeding their way back to their lodgings, the peculiarity of the day disappearing as fast as the road behind them. However much she tried to focus on the leather seats under her, the wind over the car’s frame, or the feel of Frank’s hand in hers, she found her eyes wandering back to the horizon where the moor was quickly disappearing, still slightly chilled to the bone.

The men who had lost their lives on that moor felt inexplicably more than strangers. There was a familiarity she could not explain. A tinge of sadness for which there were no words. And as for the figure…well, she supposed it had been her imagination.

She took Frank’s hand and kissed it, desperate for a physical link to bring her back to herself. He barely noticed, too intent on the road before them and the sights of today, no doubt, but it served to calm her enough. Battles occurred, whether on the shores of France or a field in Scotland. They were won or lost, then forgotten. Life went on, she told herself, breathing the Scottish air in deeply. Memories were all the soldiers of history could give now.

Peering up at the sky, she took a breath and resolved to think no more on the moor, the battle, or the highlander with the blood. The grumbling of her stomach told her that she’d soon be cozy and warm at Mrs. Graham’s with a hot meal in front of her to chase away the questions of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since reading actual reports of visitors to the Culloden Battlefield seeing a Highlander wander the field, whispering "Defeated," only to disappear moments later, I couldn't get this idea for a one-shot out of my head. Scotland is home to some of the most haunted places and, while it is no longer spooky season, I just had to do something with this...


End file.
